


Trespasser

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Campfires, Collars, Desire, Dreams, Early Mornings, Fire, First Time, Gentleness, Kissing, Knives, M/M, Memories, Regret, Rough Sex, Royalty, Scars, Silence, Sleep, Soldiers, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-14
Updated: 2003-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn is trespassing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trespasser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cinzia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinzia/gifts).



> Thanks to [](http://littlemimm.livejournal.com/profile)[**littlemimm**](http://littlemimm.livejournal.com/) for the beta.
> 
> Dedicated to [](http://cinzia.livejournal.com/profile)[**cinzia**](http://cinzia.livejournal.com/).

He was trespassing, crouching into the warmth of Boromir's personal space, trying to seem very unfazed as he set his hand down on Boromir's leg and leaned over him, reaching for the unsheathed knife half-buried in the straggly grass. Boromir did not move, save for tensing his leg, and a quick little flare of heat licked over Aragorn's skin. Boromir was strong, and more regal than Aragorn would ever be.

Aragorn tumbled back into the waking world with a little jolt, grasping the knife that had lain thrown in the grass at Boromir's side. It was not Boromir's blade; he would not stoop to such careless neglect. There was a questioning little spark in Boromir's granite eyes as Aragorn straightened up, but Aragorn knew better than to try to explain away what he was doing. Yes, he could have walked around Boromir, he could have asked him to hand him the blade, but he knew Boromir would not call on him for it. He would not think anything of it.

The blade was nicked near the hilt, but still sharp enough to write a pale line of blood along Aragorn's thumb as he drew the fingertip over the edge of the metal. The blood seemed inordinately red against both the pale streaks of his palm and the dark dirt smeared over the skin.

Boromir's gaze was cold as early morning, grey and hard, but there was a yield to the hardness, showing in flickers and sliding shadows. It was the little smile he gave when the Hobbits began to yawn in front of the fire, and it was the wariness he showed when teaching "the little ones" to fence. Aragorn found himself wondering what Boromir thought of him. Did he see a shabby usurper of the throne? He found himself wanting to prove that he would not demote Boromir -- that it never was his choice to be born into the long line of heroes. Part of him thought Boromir would not believe him. Words were not the right weapon when fighting Boromir, nor were they a panacea.

The white scar on Boromir's forehead seemed like a sliver of silver, starlight marking him for more than he thought of himself. The thought amused Aragorn, for Boromir was not by any standards Elven in looks. He wondered what the battle-worn hands would feel like on his skin, wondered if the caresses would be harsh or soft.

"Aragorn." Boromir's voice cut through the daze in his head, and he looked up, absentmindedly placing the knife into his belt.

Boromir said no more, merely tilted his head the smallest fraction, holding Aragorn nailed to his place with a mute gaze that said more than was intended and at the same time nothing at all.

The fire was dying, and Aragorn silently watched Boromir rebuild it, watched the soot trace a long line along the high cheekbone as Boromir pushed mist-dampened skeins of hair out of his face. The fire threw reflexes of red and gold into Boromir's hair and face, licking flames into the dark steeliness of his eyes. He looked like a wolf to Aragorn, a hunter, harsh and deadly and fluid, and as Boromir leaned forward, towards him, he jerked.

There was no rebuke in Boromir's eyes as he kicked the stray burning branch into place, away from Aragorn's feet.

It was strange to Aragorn how the silence he had grown into, grown to trust and love, suddenly seemed all too constrictive. For all he felt he and Boromir may well have been alone under the darkling canopy of the night sky. The Hobbits were sleeping, drowned deep in dreams of green farmlands. Gimli, seeming cast out of rock, had stilled; and Legolas and Gandalf were making their vary circling around the camp.

"You should sleep," he heard himself say, his voice strained. Boromir did not seem to trust him.

"You are not an Elf. Take your rest as well."

Boromir's answer was strange, sounding like an insult even though it was not. Aragorn knew craving when he heard it. Yet he knew full well he could not offer the warmth of his own body to Boromir. Not yet. It would be a breach of conduct for him, Ranger, leader and leaderless, to offer so bold a thing to the Captain, no less, of the White Tower. In his own way, Boromir carried the weight of his legacy, bent under the near-forgotten threat of an heir returning.

It must be bitter to stand back, Aragorn reflected, to see all that one had worked through a life for be dissolved by a claim he did not even know to be true.

***

Boromir slept restlessly, long body folded into an uncomfortable crouch. The long dark hair had slid over his cheek to lie along his neck in stripes of black. His hand, divested of its glove, looked curiously bare as it rested on the hilt of his sword, and Aragorn reached over, sweeping his fingers over the cracked knuckles. Boromir let go, the palm of the hand turning upward as the hand skidded down, opening like a pale flower in the raw darkness. The lines were etched with shadow and grit, and Aragorn noted that the wide streak of black was still on Boromir's face.

Gwathui. Shadowy. The black of shadows poured over the back of Aragorn's hand as he folded his fingers around the bone hilt of the knife in his belt and closed his eyes.

His dreams were light, as they always were when he travelled, and troubled.

When he woke, no more than three or four hours had passed. Boromir had risen, as had Gimli, but neither were to be seen. The Hobbits were still sleeping, and Legolas sat at the fire, dreaming open-eyed.

Rising, groaning at the strain the movement placed on his overworked muscles, Aragorn made his way out of the circle of the fireplace. The early morning was a deep grey, the stars not all faded from view, and it seemed as though that day the sun would not rise.

Boromir was standing sentry by a skeletal tree, his form wrapped in the mist that had risen. As Aragorn noticed him, he turned, surprising Aragorn who had thought he would make no perceptible sound. A small smile rose to Aragorn's lips. Clearly Boromir was a good sentry, more keen of sense than he let on. Acknowledging his presence with a small nod, Aragorn walked over to him, intending to offer either to take over the watch or merely keep him company.

He was not quite prepared for the look on Boromir's face as they stood half-facing each other. There was something, a melding of emotions, masking Boromir's face, deepening the grey of the eyes and shimmering in the scar. Boromir was silent, the full force of the look carrying more than words could or would express, a sorrow that seemed lust at the same time.

Aragorn pressed his grimed fingers to Boromir's mouth, stopping the harsh words he feared he would hear.

The dawn was grey, the light van and sombre. Boromir seemed painted of shadows, breathing shadow, and as their mouths met, Aragorn imagined he could taste shadow, sharp and dark, filling his mouth. Boromir's scent filled his nostrils; wet leather and the tang of man steeped with wilderness. With Boromir there was no soft body to pin, only muscle and sinew. No maiden. No tenderness, and he fought to make it softer, to make believe -- what? He knew this was a man. His future Steward, no less.

Calloused hands were holding Aragorn's face gently, the fingers slippery with grime and dew. A bird flew up from its nearby perch, scattering droplets as the branch rocked upward freed of the weight. The mist lay thick as milk at their feet.

Leaning his head down, breaking the kiss, Aragorn drew a deep breath, drinking in mist and morning chill. Boromir let go, stepping back, his fingers lingering for the slightest moment on Aragorn's throat. Returning to the fire, huddling up to rest a moment, Boromir shivered at the cold, once, then steeled himself to sit his watch.

Aragorn stood still, looking at the fire. The sleepers seemed like mere bundles of cloth, save Legolas who was sitting upright, ghostly eyes open but unseeing.

***

Trespass.

He had trespassed, even though he let himself be taken and let Boromir have his mastery over him. He could still taste the blood from his bitten lip, and hid beneath the grime on his hands were the crescents his nails had pressed into the skin of his palms. There was very little beauty in the act, yet it was not the simple, faceless rutting born of need.

The memory seemed alive.

Boromir's touch was fleeting but gentle, the first kisses questing. Had he gone through the motions of this arcane dance before? Aragorn did not expect kisses from a Captain, and they surprised him twice over. Boromir's grip on his shoulder, turning him, was firm. His hands were warm as they skidded over the sharp curve of Aragorn's hip, down and further down until Aragorn gave a groan low in his throat.

The lichen under his hands crumbled, slipped into dust as he sought a grip on the high face of the rock. Shadows danced around them, black on black, and he swallowed the moans, knowing Legolas with his sharp ears could well hear them. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead against his arm braced against the rock. Boromir's breath was hot on his neck, and the beard rasped against the skin of Aragorn's nape.

Boromir's fingers hooked into the chain of the pendant Aragorn wore; by accident or malice, Aragorn did not know. The links of the silvery chain pressed into his neck, a token of betrothal turned a collar. Boromir's grip loosened as soon as Aragorn turned his head, and the chain swung free, a quick flash of silver in the corner of his eye.

Aragorn knew what to do when Boromir undid his belt. There was a muscle memory somewhere stirred to life by the feel of Boromir's arousal pressing against him, and he widened his stance, pushing his hips back. A breathless little laugh from Boromir, relief in the sound. Raspy fingers hooked into the waist of Aragorn's breeches, rucking them down, and there was a quick ghosting of fingertips up along the furrow at the base of his spine.

"You are certain you wish to do this?" Boromir asked, his mouth very close to Aragorn's ear.

"Yes," Aragorn said, bending his head back as Boromir planted a clever trail of kisses along Aragorn's jawline.

He recognized the faint but sharp smell of the grease used to keep leather from parching in the sleet. So much courtesy at least, but that thought fell blissfully out of his mind as he felt Boromir's long fingers stretching him.

How long since the last time?

As Boromir thrust in, slowly, Aragorn gave voice to the moan that had been building. Boromir's free hand cupped the sound, fingers pressing against Aragorn's lips.

"Aragorn," Boromir breathed, the name sounding like an invocation and a blessing at the same time. As though there was awe in his voice.

Achingly slow, the movements, but building, like waves overlapping. The muscles in his arm tensed as he rested his forehead against it, and Boromir's hair tickled his neck. So many small sensations, amplified by the dead stillness around them. They were far enough from the others to be unable to hear the fire crackle, but the shared heat of their bodies was fire enough for Aragorn. Boromir's grip was tightening, the strong arm wrapped around Aragorn's waist clenching its grip. Harsher breaths and mumbled curses as Aragorn twisted slightly, hips bucking of their own volition into Boromir's warm hand.

"Deeper," he hissed, the word sinister and desperate. Boromir complied, and Aragorn was briefly breathless at the sweetly brutal sensation. Burn and pleasure, the familiar pair. At the next hard thrust, Aragorn's bracing grip on the rock nearly slipped, and he came up hard against the cliff, the cold stone a shock against his half-bared chest. He opened his mouth to voice a protest at the impact, but Boromir's sudden movement, a last high thrust, foiled the intention. Aragorn's nails bit wounds into his palms as he clenched his fists, breathing in harsh, short gasps while he bucked into Boromir's grip, feeling the slick warmth of his release spread.

Boromir exhaled sharply, slight tremors passing through him, and Aragorn could see the air turn to pale vapour in the evening chill. Loosening his grip, Boromir urged Aragorn to turn.

There would be no tender aftermath.

The air was cold on Aragorn's flushed skin, and the tips of his fingers were cool as he did up catches and clasps on his clothes, watching Boromir do the same. Once done, they stood in the silence that they seemed to lapse into whenever alone, and it was not uncomfortable. Boromir's hand clasped his shoulder, squeezing slightly in a gesture at the same time intimate and coolly impersonal.

With Boromir, it was honest and heated, if only for a moment - with Arwen, the whole affair was sedate and chilled. Aragorn loved the heat because it revived him, but he also loved the cold for its calm. Heat could scald, and it would set him aflame and burn him to cinders all too rapidly, while the cold and calm would preserve him even as it kept him fettered.

Aragorn touched gentle fingers to Boromir's jaw, trying to turn his face. He met with resistance, and Boromir's gaze was nailed to the ground, yet he was not looking at it. Instead, he was staring at something that was surely a mere phantasm of a memory.

"A kiss, Captain?" he asked, his voice roughened by the held-back shouts and by regret. The tone was too light, formed for an amiable quip, not an attempt to mend a situation already closed and gone wrong.

He was trespassing once more.

Boromir still did not answer, did not even acknowledge the hand that held his jaw so gently, and so Aragorn let go, his knuckles skidding down the front of Boromir's tunic. No use anymore. The heat was gone, the embers had turned to ash, and this cold would never calm him.


End file.
